Disclaimer: My friend and I were arguing over which of our unrequited loves was crazier. She explained hers still lives with his mother at thirty. I proudly responded that mine blows up buildings. She retorted that at least hers wasn't a fictional character. I told her I have a better chance with V than she will with this guy. She told me to go fuck myself. Point being, if I owned ANY of the stuff I was writing about, such conversations would never come to pass. Do you think the Wachowski Brothers have such discussions? Do not sue, for I will be sad, and you will get nothing but my tears.
His gloves made her wet. An embarrassing admission, to be sure, but one she had to make to herself. Even in such simple gestures as touching her hands or face, smoothing her hair, or playing the piano, Evey Hammond found V's gloves to be incredibly arousing.
She could not imagine what the touch of his hands would feel like, all burned and warped. Would they be hard and rough against her skin? Or would they be smooth and gentle? Evey didn't know. She had only seen them once. She had never touched them, or him, directly. So she imagined the gloves.
She wanted them sliding up her thighs, his long powerful fingers gripping her like he owned her. She wanted to feel the smooth leather teasing her breasts, forcing her nipples to harden until they became almost painful. She wanted those beautiful, deadly hands all over her.
When V played the piano, Evey would cross her legs tightly and try not to stare at his hands.
And yes, she wanted what was beneath the leather. Of course she did. But she had nothing to base such a fantasy on, no physical knowledge of what that would do to her body. So she settled for the gloves. Even in her dreams, it was the gloves.
It was the gloves - black, like everything about him but the mask - that parted her trembling thighs. One finger lightly touching her clitoris; she bucked at that delicate contact. Then it was leather sliding slowly inside her, stroking her walls as she writhed and arched beneath him. Her own exposed, human fingers are a poor substitute for what his hands do on her mind, but she makes do.
She wants to soak that leather with her fluids, stain it with her desire, mark it forever with her scent. Then she wants only to climax, as the force behind them grows stronger. She can almost hear V's voice against her ear as her hips rise from the bed, desperate to find their release, urging her on. Evey sees one leather-clad hand squeezing and teasing her breasts, massaging them roughly, while the other slides even deeper inside her, making her cry out. The weight of his body drives those long fingers even deeper, as his thumb mercilessly tortures her clit.
When her climax rolls through her, she can't help but let out a sob of ecstasy and frustration.
V, passing by her bedroom door on his way to tend his roses, pauses, the mask tilting slightly. He wonders what nightmare has caused such anguish, then continues on his way when he is certain that no more cries will follow it.
Evey, lying in her bed, listens to his footsteps through the Gallery.
She wonders what he would think of her if he knew her thoughts.
She wonders how many pairs of leather gloves he actually owns.
And if he would ever give her one.